


The living are restless.

by kirargent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She touches the pieces with her fingertips, twirling a bishop once before looking up at Clarke. As ever, her eyes are at once perceiving and guarded. Her sharp gaze makes Clarke feel like a specimen on a lab table each time she's subjected to it; in response, Clarke holds her head higher, nods to Lexa with a calm sort of regality. A smile touches Lexa's mouth, just slight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The living are restless.

Bellamy and Lincoln depart, and the action in the combined camp stagnates.

Grounders and Sky People alike are restless, hands quick to reach for weapons, eyes ceaseless in uneasy motion. There's no trust yet within the camp, and the high tensions born of apprehension for the coming battle make skirmishes frequent and peace strained.

Clarke's mother and Kane are often found arguing in the tent erected as the central point of the Ark leadership—they argue over Thelonious; over the truce; over the coming war. They think they have power, here, which Clarke finds amusing in her better moods and pathetic in her worst. She doesn't talk to Abby.

She doesn't talk to anyone, really, not now that Bellamy and Lincoln have gone. Their absence weighs on her like brick, like blood, like the sturdy, heavy mantle Lexa wears.  _It's on me if they don't come back_ , she thinks.  _I sent them away. I told Bellamy he was worth the risk_. If their lives end in Mount Weather, it will bring Clarke's personal body count up to three. (Well, much more than three. There are the Grounders Bellamy, Jasper and Raven shot at her behest; the Grounders she incinerated in their first clash; the young girl she couldn't save; Gustus, who only died because of their truce—but she can't dwell on the dead, or she'll break down, and none of them can afford that.  _The dead are gone, Clarke._ )

Bellamy is gone; Raven refuses to speak to her still, despite her new understanding of Clarke's action. ("Just—not yet," she'd said, eyes burning. "Not now.")

Kane and Abby while away their hours in the tent where they play at leadership, and Clarke spends her time settling Grounder/Arker disputes or discussing strategy with Lexa.

Despite the soft youth that peeks through from behind her kohl-dark eyes and solemn face, Lexa is wise and clever. It hasn't been a complete strategy session if Clarke hasn't at least twice been filled with terror at this powerful woman, and consecutive relief that they're fighting as allies. With consideration to this, it shouldn't be a surprise the day that Clarke pushes through the curtain doors of Lexa's tent to be greeted with a chess board upon a sturdy wooden table. Lexa sits beyond it, the grandeur of her posture making the nondescript chair she occupies look throne-like.

She touches the pieces with her fingertips, twirling a bishop once before looking up at Clarke. As ever, her eyes are at once perceiving and guarded. Her sharp gaze makes Clarke feel like a specimen on a lab table each time she's subjected to it; in response, Clarke holds her head higher, nods to Lexa with a calm sort of regality. A smile touches Lexa's mouth, just slight.

"Sit," she says.

Clarke does. Her eyes track over the organized pieces; she swallows, her throat feeling tight and dry. Too many things are associated with the dead, these days. Sports with her father; sturdy shoulders with Finn. Chess with Wells.

Clarke has flashes of the Ark, of the hours spent across a narrow table from her friend, a smile ever on his lips as he set up her inevitable defeat. Wells was always clever. Practical, too—he would've done well down here, she thinks. He could've made it. It's ridiculous that he didn't, unbelievable, cruel—but  _The dead are gone, Clarke._

Clarke swallows, blinks twice, and breathes in through her nose. Then she levels her eyes with Lexa's, lifting her chin. She is learning, she thinks. This survivalist queen is teaching her the painful ways of power.

"Do you know how to play, Clarke?" Lexa asks. Her tone is easy but her eyes are intense. Clarke knows she saw her reaction to the chess board, just as she knows that the information has been filed away for later use. Still, she's grateful that Lexa chooses not to comment.

"Yes," Clarke says. Her voice is steady, and she's proud. She's gotten that part down, she thinks.

Lexa's lips curve upward. "Good," she says. The white pieces are on Clarke's side of the board. "We start when you are ready."

Clarke wonders if there's more meaning behind those words than the surface invitation to play chess.

**Author's Note:**

> also [on tumblr](http://kirargent.tumblr.com/post/109230779841/the-living-are-restless)


End file.
